Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #37

Oh I have perused all Thy alphabets
And all the manner of their wielding,
Lettered in stone and wind-taunted trees,
In bodies broken and in fates whirling.

Oh I have gleaned all Thy words
And their faces vacillating, innumerable,
Planting on utterer a black poison kiss,
Marking our heads with the seal fatal.

Oh I have gleaned all Thy verses
Bringing dire whispers to singe the heart,
Thy meanings dance with our blindness
While slaying our last dream in this night.

Yet to Thee, O my Lord and King and Emperor,
I light this prayer in the confines of a fugitive hour.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry to The Master of Works #35

What scale measures the quantum of mercy
That in hourly alms is granted unto me?
Whose the hand that counts every grain
That seeds my soil yielding unfailing pain?

Whose the brow curved by a too cold light
That crowds with woe my daily sight?
Whose the lips that sneer and smile,
Laughing at my plight and relentless ill?

Who bleeds my dusks of all the vermillion
Leaving them pale with no passion?
Who now scours the last straggling breath
And meets me in silence sombre as death?

Wouldst Thou know O Sire the author who conceives
All my parts to match the grim grecian tragedies?!

Halt, who comes in moments smile bearing,
A gaudy scent daubed for some low allure,
Masking betrayals with trinket of pleasure,
Away villain, bearer of duplicity conniving.

Who dispatched thee on this enterprise,
This devious game to pierce the fallen?
Dost thou box our each pitiable groan
And replay it for pleasure of pitiless ears?

Does He sneer, lips take a dagger’s curve
Savouring our anguish, kneading our lives
For a forbidden wine of the hell-grapes,
The basest yield that night doth have?

Linger then, gather a full bushel of our woes,
Ferment our plight for His choicest yields.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry to The Master of Works #33

A little remains of the little there was,
Of the prevailing ruin the useable sliver
Is now demolished for Thy wasting whims
And yet I must to old mores adhere?

Like a wayward wave engulfs the shore
Turning our lives its hunger’s food,
So is Thy will prowling this simple air
Relishing in our despair and ungood.

For Thine is the sceptre to flagrantly flaunt
And our knees only given to buckle and serve,
If such is the end deemed at the start
For what grand issue must we labouring prove?

Oh gloat, gloat in Thy white castle unassailable,
My last tear shall haunt the doors of Thy portal.

Sonnet — Poetry for The Master of Works #32

What perennial fruit is in ephemeral time
That in bitterness ever ripe always is,
How richly endowed by this sordid clime
That it the seedly cycle easily forfeits!

Who or what is this rising so full-born
Like a power typal from ancient waters
Or a wraith that a cold will did summon
As perfect in intent and deliberate ills.

For author there is no other of all here
But Thee and hence Thou must know
Who or what plots our black despair,
A vengeful god or some demon below.

But what of all the ransom in sweat and tears
That I have brought Thee over these wretched years?

Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #31

What is mine from here to give,
For all is Thine, the inanimate and alive,
And the bright coin and high nobility
Only by Thy name any shine carry,
All deeds, the high and the base
Come unto being only by Thy force,
So too every hymn and every ode
That erupts alive from Thy musing mood,
So, what can I ever give to Thee,
Thou who art all and even me!

But hear, one thing I alone can dare,
To bring all my mire to Thee in an absolute surrender!

Oh, even more for Thee I can do,
To steal this Thy wandering world and bring it back to you!

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #30

What use to Thee am I as a lifeless ghost
Shorn of vitals, stripped of senses five,
Of conscious mind and thought bereft,
Unable to serve Thee tangibly and alive?

What use to rue like a Hamletian ghost
Of immoral couches and injustices done,
Is not late justice an aid most least,
Like wreath to a body with soul long gone?

What use to Thee am I as a hanger by,
Like a cold bright god to frame a scene
Who appears to gladden the common eye
When all toil is expended and the victory won?

Oh, let me not mar the splendour of Thy chamber
As a pitiful ghost struggling to secrete a ghostly tear!

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #29

Are we Thy devices to plumb the deplorable deeps,
A living gauge to measure the mortal condition?
Dost Thou watch in us the alarming parameters
And all the complications and consequences therein?

Are we Thy eyes that peeps over the precipice,
A living vision-scope to gaze at the ruin
That has gathered at the base of all lives,
The foul expanse and the detritus rotten?

Are we Thy emanations owning all burdens
That would baulk the wills of lesser men,
Is it why we are left without Thy cares
Lent to all that is, even to animal and demon?

Oh who shall doubt the soundness of Thy reason,
For of us none remains to perform that function!